


Interrogation

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Consensual Non-Consent, Dom/sub, Handcuffs, Interrogation, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 17:04:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18673852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Anton has captured delicious prey and he intends to use everything he has to make his prey talk.





	Interrogation

Anton’s “guest” comes alert when Anton brings a chair in front of him and puts it close, but doesn’t sit down yet. He takes out a simple cigarette case, picks a long cigarette, snaps the case shut, pockets it, and light a match. Thick smoke underlined with the seductive bitter darkness of chocolate fills the air.

The guest watches him with wary eyes. Oh, his eyes of steel. He’s not struggling like people usually do in such a situation. Anton holds the cigarette in the cup of his hand and circles the guest, and a glance at the slender wrists cuffed behind the guest’s back and linked by a rather short chain to the cuffs on each of his ankles, forcing the guest to hold his shoulders back, so tense, provides Anton with the proof of a previous struggle: the skin of the guest’s wrists, marked with the beginning of tattoos, is rubbed to bruises although not to blood, for now.

Anton circles the guest again and takes a seat, hoping it is uncomfortably close, catches the intense gaze of steely eyes. He takes a deep drag, the smoke warm on his tongue, and sucks on his teeth, blowing the smoke through his nose. “Are you comfortable, Director?”

He sees how this form of address calls to that persona in Viktor: he straightens up as much as possible, tries to relax his shoulders, tilts his chin — as though he’s the one in control of the situation. “Shall we cut the false pleasantries, Mr. Rogue?” Viktor says, his voice a pleasant rumble.

Anton shakes off its mesmerizing effect, looks at Viktor’s face carefully. There is a swelling on his bottom lip and dry blood near the corner of his mouth. Someone has gotten to the Colonel or is it a sign of a recent worry?

A frown flickers over Viktor’s face, but then it shifts to the mask of arrogant confidence.

“Are you so eager for me to put my hands on you?” Anton inquires.

Viktor’s face turns into stone. Interesting.

Anton leans forward (and under the chocolate and smoke he almost catches something else, fresh like green tea). “I’m certain, dear, _dear_ Colonel, that you know the mechanics of this procedure, and, of course, you know that pain doesn’t get results.”

“Not with me,” Viktor says. His lips part slightly.

“And of course,” Anton continues after a pause, “I assume you are trained to work even under the influence of certain… chemicals.”

“Of course,” Viktor replies smoothly, as though they are not discussing ‘enhanced interrogation techniques’.

“So,” Anton smiles, holding the cigarette away, “I’m not going to use any of that. Certainly, _mon Colonel_ , you know that I am capable both of uncomplicated brutality and of exquisite creativity. And I,” he leans forward, and his lips brush Viktor’s ear when he finishes, “intend to be _very_ creative.”

The small sharp inhalation would have eluded him had he not been so close.

“No.” The word is so stern and sharp it can be used as a weapon — but Anton is good at brawling, too.

“No?” He strokes one thigh. Viktor has delectably long legs, lean muscles of a runner, of someone who walks a lot. Anton splays his fingers, presses down, runs his hand up the thigh. The wool of the pants is thick, rich — protection from the outside world — but it doesn’t conceal the tension of the muscle under Anton’s touch. He follows the inner seam with his thumb, right up to the straining tendon…

Viktor’s throat clicks.

“Who would have thought,” Anton purrs, not-quite-brushing Viktor’s cheek with his lips, “that the stern Colonel comes undone from pleasure, and while being cuffed.”

“You wish.” Viktor’s voice would sound collected to anyone but Anton.

“And here I certainly thought,” he continues mercilessly, stroking round that straining thigh, “that your pleasure centers have been surgically removed…”

Viktor stops breathing.

Anton leans back, thinking on his words ( _Idiot, did you have to word it like that?_ ) and studies Viktor’s face.

Viktor blinks, slowly and deliberately. Green.

He licks his lips — and notes how the Colonel’s gaze flicks down. Very interesting.

“But since they are present and intact, I intend to use them in full.”

“No,” Viktor growls.

Viktor’s voice is very beautiful, and Anton wants to pull the whole range of noises out of the Colonel, but he has to maintain control and not let himself get focused on the noises alone. Not let Viktor show he can use something even while bound. Gagging Viktor is a tempting idea… But for a different time.

He remembers he’s holding a cigarette. He gets up, taking a long drag, hoping it would clear his thoughts.

Viktor is wearing his gray jacket, rather thick, and to take it off Anton would have to uncuff Viktor — or simply cut the jacket, but ruining it isn’t in his plans.

“Oh my dear, dear Colonel…” he purrs, stopping behind Viktor — and the cigarette hovers halfway to his mouth, because he sees it. A little stiffening of Viktor’s body, how his chest rises and falls so fast now…

He stubs the smoke out in an ashtray, then prowls back to Viktor, unable and unwilling to contain a smirk. “Oh my dear, _dear_ Colonel. Try as you might to hide it, I see that you are affected.”

Viktor doesn’t say anything, and to anyone else his face must appear impassionate — but Anton reads the tension in his mouth, and there is a tiny frown between his brows. And his eyes, so much emotion in his eyes: annoyances, anger… Hunger. Straining against its bonds, craving to be touched, cherished… Consumed.

“You see, _mon Colonel_ , I watched you for a long time. And you pretend to be unaffected by emotions or you fake them when you need to manipulate others — but the truth is…” he lingers, allowing himself to rake his gaze over Viktor’s face: high cheekbones, both sharp and round, his proud nose nicked on the bridge by a faint line of an old scar, his brows like a smear of charcoal, the tight line of his mouth. The crow’s feet at his eyes.

Anton licks his lips again. “The truth is, you are not untouchable. You want to be touched, you want to be,” he raises his hand, drawing a finger up Viktor’s covered throat — Viktor parts his lips — and Anton pushes a finger under the turtleneck, “you want,” he repeats, stroking the pulse beating like mad, “to be _taken_.”

Viktor closes his eyes, his chest rising and falling so fast and barely visible — but Anton is here and looking closely, and he knows he has Viktor.

He slides another finger under the collar, stretching it. There is ink here, too, he files it away as yet another detail about the Director to explore later. Brushes his thumb over the angle of Viktor’s jaw, perfectly shaven, moves his whole palm to cup his cheek. Viktor’s lashes flutter.

“I could give you what you want,” he offers, dropping his voice. Mesmerized by the sight of Viktor like this, tensing and relaxing intermittently, his breathing shallow. Gods, he’s so beautiful, and Anton wants to kiss these parted lips, to taste him. But he has a task, a goal.

“I could call in a handful of boys who—”

_“No.”_

He chuckles, scratching behind Viktor’s ear, and for a single moment, Viktor leans into it. “No, I won’t. I won’t share this, you, with _anyone_. I’m greedy and selfish and I’m going to have all of you to myself, and I’m going to find out what you crave so much and I’m going to give you _everything_.” He leans down as he tilts Viktor’s face up, and he notes that Viktor doesn’t try to resist or move away.

But Viktor’s eyes are closed.

Anton tightens his grip on Viktor’s chin. “ _Look_ at me,” he commands, and heat rushes down his throat and his chest and spine when Viktor obeys — and there is so much naked _need_ in his eyes.

“You will get everything you want,” Anton promises, presses the pad of his thumb onto Viktor’s bottom lip. “If you tell me what _I_ want from you.”

Defiance flickers in Viktor’s gaze — but it is only a flicker. “No.”

He raises a brow. “No? Still no? All right. Then I have no choice but to continue.”

“No, please…”

This is too good, the Colonel reduced to begging, his low voice soft, his eyes glazing over, every bit of him leaning into the touch, hungry.

“Please what? You have to tell me. You know what I want from you.”

“No.” Viktor jerks his head, escaping his grip.

Anton clicks his tongue. “So fucking stubborn. But I am very stubborn, too, Director.”

And, as the handsome line of Viktor’s jaw is right here, he nips at it — and revels in Viktor’s going so very still. He presses the advantage, dragging his tongue to Viktor’s ear, then purrs, “I can keep up like this for a very long time. Can _you_?”

When he closes his lips on the earlobe, Viktor jerks.

Anton wants to get to his throat, so obviously sensitive, but the turtleneck makes the task difficult, though he keeps stroking it with his fingers, light and in tight little circles, pressing now and then to the pulse point.

Viktor smells so good, green tea and musk and wool, and a faint trace of cigarettes (cherry).

“I have all the time in the world, _mon semblable_ , and I will give all of it to you…” He keeps the purr steady, and keeps touching Viktor, but only lightly: a stroke here, a brush there, against his sensitive neck, his cheekbones, with color high on them, his parted lips letting out short breaths. Anton switches between languages, and he can’t deny himself the temptation of brushing a kiss or two over Viktor’s skin — and Viktor _trembles_ at every single one of them, and then Viktor moans — guttural, as though he can’t help himself.

Anton presses his lips to Viktor’s heated temple. “Oh no, no, no, sweet thing, you can’t, I won’t allow it, not until you say what I want.”

“ _Please_ …”

Viktor sounds so wrecked.

Anton licks the sweat off his temple and says, “No.”

“Please!”

“If you tell me.”

Viktor moans again, and it’s so, so sweet, Anton is drunk on it. The Colonel, breaking at his hands so beautifully.

The chains are rattling with Viktor’s trembles.

Anton presses a kiss to the cheekbone, and then closer to the ear, the skin hot under his lips. “Tell me.”

Viktor is almost sobbing, and then he breathes out, “ _Tosha_.”

He smiles. “Good. You may come now.” And he kisses Vik’s mouth.

He swallows Vik’s silent breaths as Vik jerks, the chains ringing, until the tension breaks, and withdraws with a gentle nip to Vik’s lips — but Vik pushes him back.

Anton falls onto the chair, a question on his tongue — but Vik drops to his knees, shaking hands working frantically at Anton’s pants.

“Vitya—”

“Let me, I need—” Vik doesn’t finish his sentence, swallowing Anton.

Anton throws his head back, pleasure painful and hot, and he buries his fingers in Vik’s hair to hold onto _something_ , and Vik _moans_ , and his mouth is a tight, silky heat, and he doesn’t—

Anton shudders, blinded and pinned by his pleasure.

He remembers to let go of Vik’s hair some moments later, and strokes his head in silent apology. Vik is breathing hard, forehead on Anton’s thigh. Anton feels boneless, but he scrambles enough of willpower to tuck himself back into his pants, then strokes the shaven back of Vik’s head, tries to catch his breath. “Vitya?” His throat feels rough; he must have shouted, but he doesn’t remember.

“All right, I’m…” Vik groans again, and it’s muffled in Anton’s thigh.

He strokes Vik’s shoulder, then lifts his arm, and looks at the broken chains. He fishes the small key out of his pocket and opens the cuff carefully, dropping it to the floor, then rubs a thumb over the raw skin of Vik’s wrist. It needs healing cream.

Anton brings it to his lips. “Oh Vitya. Are you with me?”

“Да. Просто…”

He lowers Vik’s hand on his own thigh, then takes Vik’s chin carefully and tilts his face.

Vik’s eyes are wet and soft and hooded, but aware.

“How are you feeling, sweet thing?” Anton brushes the bright spot on Vik’s bottom lip. Tender.

“Amazing.” Vik sounds as raw as Anton feels. “It was amazing. Thank you.” He turns his face and Anton feels Vik’s lips in his palm.

“Broke the cuffs.”

“Sorry.”

He chuckles. “It’s all right. Do you want to stand up now? Do you want help?”

“Yes.”

His whole body is heavy from pleasure, from having given Vik pleasure, but Anton bends on the chair and slides his arm under Vik’s and helps him get up.

Vik turns to him and presses himself to him, heavy and pliant, his breathing deeper, his hot lips sweet on Anton’s. “Thank you.”

He smiles, cupping Vik’s cheek, looking into his tender eyes. “Всё что угодно для тебя, родной.”

They stay in each other’s arms for a few moments more, then go to the shower, holding onto each other.


End file.
